


Howevermore

by FraustiNoSnowman



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Bullied George, Drista’s called Clarent, Fluff and Angst, High School AU, M/M, Nice Friend Sapnap I guess, Reclusive Dream, Vaping highschoolers, Violence, cliche stories why not, i do not know how to fucking tag, maybe smut?, regular usage of swears, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FraustiNoSnowman/pseuds/FraustiNoSnowman
Summary: —“Why would they do that?” Clay asked.“Because I’m small, I’m short, I’m weak, I’m colorblind, my dad left me when I was five, I’m gay. Lots of reasons. It doesn’t matter,” He muttered before wiping his own blood off the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t pity me. You don’t deserve to be like me.” The boy pushed past Clay with a light shove not intended to hurt. He walked away, back straight, though slightly limping.—
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 8





	1. Outlier(s)

August 13th. First day of senior year at Featherwood High and first year in the small town in Florida for Clay. His family moved here because his father somehow got a job in this school, and he and his sister had no choice but to come live in a shitty and hot town with basically nothing but one single café and in total of three fancy restaurants that he didn’t like, at all. 

The moment he stepped into his first class, he hated it. The English classroom basically stunk of sweat and dead wood, packed with people who have no sense of personal space and were louder than an entire nest of baby sparrows. He found an empty seat and sat down, head on his hand. 

“Quiet,” The teacher declared, smashing his textbook on his desk as everyone shuffled around the room to sit down. “I know you’re all excited,”

Not at all. Not excited at all. He wanted to die on the spot if he had the chance to. 

“But quiet down, we’ll start with…” The teacher continued rambled on about a random poet. He didn’t bother listening because he had learnt it before, in 6th grade. 

This place sucked. It sucked so bad. 

—

He basically slept through his second class, whatever it was. It sounded like precalculus, but again, he had learnt it well before he came here. 

What was he even there for.

A few people attempted to speak to him during group activities, but he ignored them, all in one whole, because he just didn’t feel the need to. 

Not that he felt superior over them — scratch that, he sort of did — he just didn’t feel like talking. One more year and this’ll be over. He’d be out of this town in a better University than any person in this school will ever go, and never see them again. Clay didn’t need to see these people, talk to these people. It just didn’t matter to him. 

He was heading to lunch that day when he faintly heard a jumble of voices to a small alleyway. Clay had purposefully avoided the main route, not wishing to squeeze past too many people he didn’t want to touch. Attracted by the sounds, he took a careful step. 

“Fuck,” A large man, almond colored hair, lifted his fist to pound onto a shady shape on the floor. “You’re so tough, aren’t you?” The shape under the man squirmed, probably because of pain. Clay silently tiptoed closer to see better, hoping for his life that the man, along with two other shorter guys didn’t see or hear him. 

At that point Clay had realized that the shape on the ground was a boy, holding his head and begging for mercy quietly. The boy looked up slightly, and his eyes were glistening, with tears and something else. Needless to say Clay was furious. Of course, in such a shitty place like this, there’s definitely bullying. The man who’s hitting the boy on the ground was at most 6 foot, and Clay himself was 6 foot 3, and he went to the gym regularly before he came to this stinking place. He stepped up without thinking too much. 

“What’re you doing.” He tried to seem as threatening as possible, as he had dropped off his bag on the side of the alleyway, hoping that it makes him look older and bigger. Clay had rolled one of his sleeve up and stretched it over his head, anticipating a big fight, since the people in front look like they weren’t blocking down. 

The man instantly threw the boy onto the ground, kicked him to a side, and faced Clay directly. “Who the fuck are you?” The man stretched too, the two shorter guys behind him also tensed up. 

“You don’t need to know my name,” Clay snarled. He didn’t even know what he should be doing, since he has never fought anyone before, and neither has he ever been beaten. “Just get off from him and you’ll be out of here in one piece.” He was as intimidating as he could be, hoping that that would at least do the trick.

To his surprise, the men looked at each other before slightly backing off, walking past Clay in a mouse-like manner. 

“We’ve got enough today,” The tallest man snarled. “You won’t be this lucky next time.” Those were the last words before they slipped past the alleyway. 

Clay gave them one last look before walking, kneeling in front of the boy on the ground, who, to Clay’s surprise, was already sitting up straight, legs extended, rubbing his right eye with the back of his hand. The boy’s expression changed, tears completely disappeared from his eyes, instead replaced by something which distantly resembled pride, or at least a single string of self respect or dignity. 

“Why would they do that?” Clay asked. 

“Because I’m small, I’m short, I’m weak, I’m colorblind, my dad left me when I was five, I’m gay. Lots of reasons. It doesn’t matter,” He muttered before wiping his own blood off the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t pity me. You don’t deserve to be like me.” The boy pushed past Clay with a light shove not intended to hurt. He walked away, back straight, though slightly limping. 

“Hey,” Clay reached over but was afraid to touch the boy. The boy turned his head back, his cheek now clearly bruised, and looked at Clay with those same eyes, but softened. “What’s your name.” Yeah. Stupid. Cheesy. It sounded like a pickup line, or maybe it was. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to know, wanted to know what he could at least do to make the boy feel better, or that he just didn’t want to “save” a person he doesn’t know the name of, even if they might not ever meet again. 

The boy stared at Clay for a second. “Why would you want to know?” 

He didn’t know how to answer. “Is a name too much to ask?” He found himself retorting, immediately beating himself up from the inside for his cockiness, knowing that it might not be the best thing to say. 

“No,” The boy replied. “I just don’t get how you don’t know me already.” 

“I’m new.” Clay mumbled. 

“Then you’ll get to know me in a few days,” The boy said. “When everyone talks about the monster. And you’ll know to get out of here quick. Good luck.” He said as he took the corner and left. 

“Wai-” Too late. The boy was already gone, and as his muscles relaxed, his stomach growled. He couldn’t help but think that this encounter was a one time occasion, and since his hunger took over, he picked up his bag and left for the food court, the boy nowhere to be found, not that he looked for him. 

—

“Mind if I sit next to you?” A short, but buff, dude with brown, short hair asked Clay, who was cramped in the most oblivious corner possible in the food court, yet someone still managed to find him and try to talk to him. 

“Just take the chair.” Clay growled. He was almost finished with his hotdog, that tasted nothing better than two pieces of shoes smashed in one, and was prepared to go for his next class, even if he was almost an entire hour early of his schedule. 

The guy pouted but sat down anyways, regardless of what Clay just said. Clay looked at him with a glaring eye.   
“Geez, calm down. I’m not going to talk to you if you don’t want me to,” The guy said, sort of contradicting with his words as he took a chunk out of his hotdog and frowned in distaste. “But since I’ve never seen you before this morning’s English class, you must be new and I’m just trying to be nice for once, alright?” 

“I don’t need you to be nice to me,” Clay snapped, hoisting his bag on his shoulders and stood up to leave. 

The guy reached up and grabbed Clay by the backpack straps. Clay hissed at the man. 

“Just before you go, my name’s Nick, by the way. See you soon.” Nick let go of Clay and returned to his hotdog as if nothing had happened. Clay didn’t bother looking at the short guy, instead strafing straight out of the dining hall. 

He needed somewhere with less people, and his next class was, his favorite yet, Computer Science. 

Before he came, Clay developed plugins for multiple games for fun, especially Minecraft, though he barely told anyone, even at his old place, because most of them think of those as games for 8 year olds, not 18 year olds. That being said, he never really wanted to tell anyone anyways, so it barely bothered him. 

So at that thought he slowly but steadily strafed towards the classroom he was assigned to. 

—

Somehow he wasn’t the only one there. The classroom was larger than he thought it would be — in fact, the sign outside of the room told him that it was one of the largest classrooms in the entirety of Featherwood High. And although it was still smaller than many of the lecture halls back in his own highschool — strange, he still called it his own even though he probably wouldn’t go back, ever — but it was considerably large, with more than 10 rows of seats, and a boy in the very back. 

Clay recognized the boy, he just saw him 20 minutes ago. The boy in the alleyway, the “monster” he claimed himself to be. 

That being said, the boy didn’t look interested in talking to Clay, and Clay didn’t feel the need to go there and provoke, so he picked a seat on the other side of the room, in the middle, and opened his laptop and half mindedly started to code whatever he had left off with the day before. 

Clay’s attention drifted, more than he used to, interestingly, to the boy sitting in the corner. The boy was shifting in his chair, not too much, but enough to catch Clay’s attention. He was certainly uncomfortable, and Clay suddenly had the urge to speak up. 

“If you don’t want me here, you can always ask me to leave.” Clay said, not bothering to look at the boy in the back. Instead, he stared at his screen, still not taking his attention off of the line of code. 

“I’m just surprised someone other than me enjoys a bit of solitude before class.” The boy retorted, and although the words seemed too bratty for Clay’s liking, the soft tone suggests otherwise. 

“Very well then.” Clay said, his voice faltered as he continued to code full heartedly, concentrating on the plug in. The boy didn’t say anything else either, and they stayed in comfortable silence as the sounds of clicking keyboards and pencils scribbling on paper echoed in the large lecture hall of a computer science classroom. 

Clay wasn’t usually the one to wonder about others, nor about himself, but some distant part of himself was curious to know just a little about the boy sitting behind him, even though his better self told him it was a bad idea, and he didn’t need to know anyone, talk to anyone, speak to anyone, make friends with anyone. He shouldn’t even try. 

Clay was always the loner, and he will continue to be. 

“Hey,” The boy suddenly spoke up, startling the dirty blonde. “Class is starting, just so you know.” 

“I’m in this class.” Clay responded, shutting his laptop and pulling out his notebook and a stubby pencil. He wasn’t planning to take too many notes anyways. 

The boy hummed. 

“‘m name’s Clay.” Clay blurted out, it wasn’t his intention that he would somehow tell the boy his name. Why would he? It didn’t make sense. 

“I never asked,” The boy murmured. “But my name’s George, if that’s the answer you want from me.” 

“It was.” Those were the last words he said to the boy — George — before students came pouring into the classroom, squeezing into the chairs and waiting for the next class to start. Clay was surrounded by people, more of which he didn’t like but didn’t care to bother. 

Class went by in a blur as he took notes about basic Java language and the mysterious boy named George.


	2. They say home is where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why would you even bother?” The question was too vague for Clay’s liking, and he stayed silent for the next few moments, taking short and rushed breaths of his blueberry flavored vape and staring past George, into the soccer goal on the other side.
> 
> “I don’t know what you mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme try a high school AU because why not. This is going to be hard for me because, as much as I enjoy high school AUs, I did not attend a US high school, so it might be a little hard for me to imagine but I believe in myself so I will do it anyways. 
> 
> Also, kids, do your homework (on a random note)
> 
> Updating two novels at the same time is hard but I will try my best!

“… so that concludes our class for today. Homework due next class, which is tomorrow afternoon. Class dismissed.” The teacher’s words rang in his ears as Clay struggled to stand upon the sea of people. It was about 15 seconds later that he decided it might just be the best idea to wait for everyone to leave. He almost threw up at the thought of sweaty boys and perfume drenched girls touching him, scarring him with the smell. 

Oh boy was he sensitive, and it wasn’t really his fault. 

Talking to people just wasn’t his shit, even when he was just a five year old, and gradually it turned into his trait, his personality, the fact that he wouldn’t talk to anyone, maybe besides his younger sister, who was almost as reclusive as Clay was. He grew to like to be alone, away from everyone else, and it gradually turned into the hatred of other’s presence, and even though he knew it was never someone else’s fault, he would always hiss at them, growl at them, forcing others to get away from him. Clay just thought it would be best for both others and himself. 

It seemed as if someone else in the room felt the same. 

“I see you’re not like them.” George whispered as he passed Clay, breaking Clay from his state of mind, reminding him that he was the last one left. He picked up his bag and followed the small brunette walking hunchbacked in front of him. 

“I don’t know what made you think I was.” Clay could find himself whispering back, earning a warning glare from George. He brushed it off as if he just didn’t see. 

And that was where their conversation ended, again. Always tensed up, like a ribbon being held too tight between two people. Clay didn’t bother addressing it, it was just his first day, anyways, and he didn’t think he would find himself knowing others’ names, yet he found 2.

Weird of him, such weird of him. 

—

At home, it was the same silence. His sister was sitting on the couch, in the living room. The house wasn’t familiar — he had just moved to this small town, and their parents thought it was a brilliant idea to rent a house next to a swampy place with barely enough stable electricity for them to turn the lights on for the entire night. He didn’t feel like it was home, in fact, he wanted to go home more than ever. 

Featherwood High wasn’t where he belonged. Neither was the small town in a shit corner of Florida. He lived in Orlando, where stuff were more advanced, where classes were better, where he had a large gaming setup that he didn’t even use for gaming. If he was back in Orlando, his sister, Clarent Kingsman, wouldn’t be sitting there in front of a TV that glitched out once in a while and would make them wait an entire minute for the show to come back again; if he was back in Orlando, his brain wouldn’t be stuffed with whatever he had encountered at the first day of school. 

“Welcome back,” Clarent didn’t bother to shoot Clay a look. 

“I’m not ‘back.’” Clay shot as he dragged his bag to his room, smashing the door behind him and turned on his bed lamp that stood weakly besides his pillow (he still hated that he had to call the stuff “his”) and threw his pack on the corner of the room. He didn’t bother to undress before he fell onto bed, voluntarily, and just stared into the roof. 

The paint on there looked as if it would leak onto his head for 250 days in a year, though it didn’t really surprise him though, because even though Orlando was a large ass place, it still rained heavy shit. After all, it was Florida. 

He didn’t feel like sleeping. He just felt like lying there, alone, somewhere where people’s scents didn’t get into the way, somewhere where people weren’t constantly shouting into his ears at someone else he didn’t even know. He was just tired. 

“Clay,” Clarent’s voice came from the other side of the door. The sounds of the TV have halted, maybe indicating another glitch in the TV, or that she had stopped it voluntarily. Who knows. 

“What.” He deadpanned, hating that his sister broke his train of thought, even though he wasn’t really thinking about a lot of things anyways.

“I know you’re salty, and I am too,” Clarent said. “But we’re going to stay here for a year, and you know nothing’s going to change that. You’re not going to change it, I’m not going to change it, and neither will mom nor dad. Neither would Patches.” And he hated it because he knew that Clarent was right. She was completely right. He was stuck. 

He growled, shifting on his tailbone. “I know, now go back to your TV show while I lie here and die on my own.” He meant it, sort of. 

“It’s ended. And I’m going in my room too. Mom and dad are out today so either you’re making dinner or we’re going to defrost some of that shit mom bought the other day.” Clarent murmured before footsteps were heard on the damp wooden floor. Clay swore under his breath because he knew there was no way he could bring himself to eat whatever his mother bought at a sketchy supermarket on their way here. 

Why doesn’t everything go his way? He could’ve not had this, if he didn’t move here with his family. He had enough money, from coding, that he could rent a 1DLK apartment somewhere far away from his old highschool or request boarding, yet his mother insisted that his sister would be lonely without him, and he wasn’t even given enough time to think it through. He just came, and now he hated it. 

He hated everything. He thought as he climbed out of bed again, tottering to the kitchen to make them each a simple dinner. Peas. Egg. Garlic bread. Whatever works. 

—

During the night, he just stared out of the window in front his desk. 

Pacing. 

Not sleeping didn’t seem like a good idea, but he just couldn’t. He’s tried everything, from meditation to finishing whatever homework the teachers have given him throughout the day. It just didn’t work. 

His mother and father weren’t back home yet, and according to Clarent, at dinner, that they probably wouldn’t be back until 2 a.m., and it was just about midnight when he decided it was better if he just stared out of the window. 

Clay Kingsman was struggling. He was fighting himself, out of spite and hate for nothing in particular, you could also say he was fighting everyone, everything, and he needed a way out, even just a while. 

He used to vape a little, when he was stressed, and he still did it then. His parents didn’t know. They’d wouldn’t let Clay.   
Of course his parents were the most overprotective yet the most oblivious people in the entire planet. Yes, Clay and Clarent didn’t like talking to others, and in the far run that would cause some problems, but Mr and Mrs Kingsman decided that the kids can do what they want, unless they didn’t want them to do that, and in those cases they would react violently, throwing tamper tantrums that Clay knew not to throw at age 7 and Clarent at age 4. 

He wanted to get out of the house, and at the moment nothing was stopping him. 

Grabbing his vape, he darted out of the house in a swift motion, leaving his sister at home alone, and even though he knew that wasn’t a great idea, he knew his sister could meticulously handle a kitchen knife like it was the best weapon in the world and somehow always kept a small knife under her pillow no matter what. She took as many classes she needed to keep people away from her, and Clay respected that to his fullest. Clay locked the door behind him, walking to the direction to the school. 

As much as he hated that place, he needed a familiar place to go, and he literally knew nowhere else. 

There weren’t dorms in the place. The school was too small for that, instead, everyone just went home or to a friend’s home or somewhere they wished. The school didn’t care so no one did. The downside of that was that he didn’t know where to go. 

He brought his vape to his mouth and inhaled, slightly too much that coughed a little bit. 

“Fuck,” He swore to himself. He didn’t want to stand somewhere and spend his time with sore legs and a crappy position because he wanted to spend his night vaping to himself. 

He wandered slowly to the field, hoping it would be open, and dark, just like how he’d be liked to left alone. 

And it was, to his expectations. The field was ruffly covered in bad artificial grass. Anyone playing on it would inevitably slip and fall. There was barely any sound except for the wind and his own breaths. Not even birds bothered to speak to him, and he liked it that way. 

Finding his way onto one of those rusty bleachers, he took a seat, putting the vape into his mouth again. 

The night was cooler than the Orlando nights he used to feel, but not cool enough for him to think properly. 

Although once in a while, he could afford to not think properly. 

He could spend hours thinking about what it was like at home, again, but he was too tired and bored to be lamenting over what he had lost. It seemed at that point of time that he had basically just promptly given up, it was just that he didn’t want to admit it. 

Clay, it’s just the first day. You can’t give in on the first day. 

White mist encompassed his face before fading away, disappearing into the Floridan wind. He tasted a mixture of rain and blueberry in the air. Savoring the taste of his mind, he closed his eyes and thought of nothing. 

He didn’t think of nothing. 

Of course he didn’t think of nothing. He thought of what he’d be like here, in this town, in Featherwood. Surely he had to find himself something to do. Something that didn’t involve other people. That is, if he wanted to stop thinking about what it’d be like home.

Of course, he needed first to stop calling it his home. 

His mind was so conflicted that he could barely think. Clay opened his eyes again. 

Maybe it would be better if he didn’t think at all. 

“You’re the last person I’d expect to be here on a Monday night.” A person’s voice caught Clay’s ears, and he instantly stood up straight and looked around to see where the voice came from. 

“Here.” And then he heard the voice again, right in front of him, when he was looking back. Clay jumped and instantly put on the expression he used for talking to people, unconsciously. 

He recognized the boy in front of him. 

“Hi,” Clay said. “George. What are you doing here.” 

The small brunette sat down on the patch of artificial grass on the field, cross-legged, right in front of Clay Kingsman, who clutched hard onto his vape, even though he knew George would probably not do anything about him even if he caught Clay vaping in the middle of the night — which he, in fact, did just then. 

“I was about to ask you the same question, but I’m here because I come here almost every night.” George answered, looking straight into Clay’s eyes with the same expression he used when Clay ran into him being beaten to the ground that morning. 

Clay sighed and took a vape. 

“I’m sorry for intruding your personal space then,” Clay sighed again, this time with white smoke coming out of his mouth and his nose, making him cough slightly. Embarrassing, to say the least. 

“Say,” George said. “Clay. Why would you even bother?” The question was too vague for Clay’s liking, and he stayed silent for the next few moments, taking short and rushed breaths of his blueberry flavored vape and staring past George, into the soccer goal on the other side. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

George cocked his head to the side, showing some of his bruises on his neck. “I don’t understand why you’d apologize to me, or try to be nice to me. I saw you interact with people. You don’t apologize to… his name was… Nick, nor to Bruce. You hate it, but why do you put up with me?” 

“It’s the first day we met,” Clay squeezed the words from in between his teeth and his vape. “Chill.” 

George stood up without a word and turned to the other side. 

“I’m just interested.” 

Those were the last words of George’s before the short boy left the vaping dirty blonde under the clouds, in an open field with no one watching.


	3. You’re No Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I never said you’re wrong. I was just relishing the fact that you’re no different from me.” George said, climbing up from the counter into a sitting position.
> 
> “Shut. Up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters a day, I know.  
> Angst babeeeeeee
> 
> Follow me on twitter? @FraustHaruka

Shit. 

It was dawn when Clay’s eyelids fluttered open. He had fallen asleep on the bleachers last night, in the brain rotting highschool he found himself just the day before. Somehow it took him longer to register why he was there. 

He was vaping last night, after having a brief conversation with another boy — a fellow classmate, at most, if you’d want to put it that way. Somehow talking to the “George” boy made him calm down a little enough for him to doze off, and he marveled at the thought. 

Maybe talking to someone, for once, mayn’t be that bad. 

But then again, a one time occasion doesn’t really matter. 

The Clay Kingsman everyone knew was like a lone wolf out of a pack, determined to make a world of his own. Or, simply, he just didn’t want to talk to other wolves. Both ways didn’t change how he wouldn’t let that one time incident change who he was. 

Yes, he was stubborn. So?

Alas, what Clay chose to do had nothing to do with anyone else. Clarent is a girl grown enough to look after herself in her own way, she doesn’t need Clay to talk to her, hang around her like the normal sassy older brother; their parents, in Clay’s words, shouldn’t give a shit; and anyone else — pffft. As if he cared. 

He got up and walked back towards his humble abode. 

—

He took a 45 minute nap before heading to school again. 

It wasn’t like he did that often, but, he admitted it, he was just being unaccepting of what he was going through, and he would continue to not accept it nonetheless. His parents didn’t even notice he was gone, and his father was only shocked when he saw Clay sitting on the sofa with his phone at 5:30 in the morning. 

He knew he was going to be at school early, but at least he could find a good spot in his CS class in the morning without being crowded by people mountains.

A vaguely familiar turn. Left. Right. 

A vaguely familiar hallway, a vaguely familiar door. 

And inside the classroom was a vaguely familiar face. 

“Good morning.” Clay said into the room, startling the boy sitting at the far left corner of the room. 

“You seem to meet me in the weirdest of places, and I start to think you’re doing it on purpose.” The boy on the corner declared, tone like that of a king’s but posture weaker than a mere clown. He was almost half leaning onto the side of the wall, circles under eyes. 

“I can leave now.” Clay replied. He meant it. If George was to insist for him to leave he could just turn around, go sit on the bleachers and wait for another half an hour for class to start. George, on the other hand, lifted his head up to stare at Clay before half slumping on the table. 

George squinted. “I don’t own this classroom, so unless Mr. Watson doesn’t want you here I wouldn’t have the right to kick you out. You’re not them.” 

“Them.” Clay mumbled to himself as he sat in the seat he chose for himself last time. The chair was on the middle-right side of the classroom, not too far from George, yet not too close. Just about right. Part of Clay Kingsman wanted George to be close, and the other part just wanted him to stay as far as possible. The seat was a compromise to both sides of his brain. That was the most he could do. 

“Them.” George echoed. Making Clay scowl at the sound. He knew he was not like the others, and definitely didn’t need confirmation from a guy he barely met. Scratch that. He didn’t need any confirmation from anyone. He knew he wasn’t like “them.”

“And why shouldn’t you be part of ‘them?’” Clay didn’t look back at George.

“Good question. I don’t know. I don’t think you want to know. I don’t think I need to know.”

So witty, so bratty. But Clay knew that voice better. It was the result of some self defense mechanism. When he was younger he used that voice. He used that voice when a kid, Rick was his name, pushed him off of the monkey bars. He acted like someone else, like he was stronger than he was — believe it or not, Clay used to be thin, scrawny even. 

Strange. Even though Clay didn’t want to care about the mysterious boy named George, he was already getting to know him more than he did anyone else. 

It annoyed him. 

The atmosphere was eerily tense, not that neither of them disliked it. 

A teacher entered the room at about 7 in the morning. 

“An unexpected acquaintance, I see.” The teacher, if he remembered correctly, Mr. Watson, said as he propped his textbooks on his desk. 

Dream didn’t answer, even though he knew more than well that the teacher was referring to him. Instead, he pulled out his homework and rested on the desk, crossing his arms and leaning backwards.

The teacher then raised a brow before swiftly moving to the seat in front of Clay. Clay just stared at the teacher’s nose. Mr. Watson ran his fingers through his hair before picking Clay’s homework up, examining it slightly. 

“You know,” Mr. Watson said. “I haven’t seen anyone else here complete homework except for George.”

Clay glanced back at the brunette, who was madly scribbling on a sheet of paper with his blue pencil. He looked back at the teacher, who was apparently waiting for an answer. 

“I code plugins. Online. Before I ended up here.” He spat the last parts of the sentence. 

“I see,” The teacher hummed. Through the corner of his eye, Clay could see George glancing their way, before noticing Clay’s glance and then turned back to whatever he was drawing. “And why did you ‘end up’ here?”“Family reasons.” 

Mr. Watson looked more than surprised. 

“And why do you hate this place?” 

Clay didn’t answer. He just stared straight at Mr. Watson as if he didn’t care a thing. To be true, he didn’t give a single piece of shit about what the teacher was going to react, going to do, going to say. He didn’t know what to say so he just didn’t say anything. That simple. The Clay Kingsman wasn’t going to hold a conversation between himself and his coding teacher who teaches classes and classes of dimwits who apparently didn’t even do their homework. Why would he?

“I see,” Mr. Watson said. “I have two one-of-a-kind people in my class and both of them won’t even spare me a word.” Both Clay and George knew what Mr. Watson was saying, yet neither of them wanted to comment on it. 

“Come on, give me some thing to work on,” The blond haired teacher wailed. “You have less than 30 minutes before class and both of you are stuck with me for now. At least entertain me.” 

“I don’t have to.” Clay snapped. 

Mr. Watson didn’t even look bothered at Clay’s offensive tone. Instead, he turned to George. 

“What about you, son?” 

George snarled too. “Please don’t let me do this.”

Mr. Watson sighed. He returned to silently sitting at his desk, batting the random fly that came through the windows that he just closed. Clay and George just sat there, without a single word nor a single thing. Just sitting there, both thinking about stuff in their heads. Neither of them would ever bother to share. 

Clay just thought solely of the boy who sat besides him, to his left, to his own surprise. He didn’t bother shaking it off though. 

—

At least Mr. Watson, or Phil, as he insisted everyone to address him as after class, knows better coding than his math teacher knows math. The coding class wasn’t that boring after all, and Phil kept on looking at both Clay and George when he got to the more advanced bits, clearly thrilled that people actually listen to his class. 

“What do you have next class, Kingsman?” Mr. Watson said as Clay and George waited for everyone to leave the room. Clay thought for a while. 

“Free.” He answered truthfully. 

“If I remember correctly, Davidson, you’re free too, right?” George hummed in the background. 

So his name’s George Davidson. How humble. 

He shook his head mentally. Why did he even need to know that? Why did he even think of that? Someone’s name didn’t matter to the Clay Kingsman he built from ashes, so clearly shouldn’t “George Davidson.” What sort of a cliché name was that?

“Come to my office. Both of you.” Phil gestured as he turned, not bothering to see whether if the two boys will follow him. It shouldn’t be a surprise to find out that both George and Clay complied.  
George looked casual, not as tense as Clay was. It probably wasn’t the first time this had happened to George. Maybe Mr. Phil always took students he felt was “one-of-a-kind” after classes to talk in his office. Clay mentally shrugged. 

His office was small, only a small sofa and a small coffee table with a larger desk on the side. That was it. 

“Please take a seat.” Phil gestured at the sofa. Clay and George looked at each other for a small while before finding their own spots on the very edge of the sofa, just enough space that they’d feel comfortable enough, but not too comfortable. 

“Why’m I here?” Clay went straight to the spot. 

“Because I think the two of you need some help.” Phil wasn’t the one to be shy about words. 

“What makes you think I need help?” Clay retorted. George, on the side, was huffing to himself, not making eye contact with anyone in the room, not even the orca whale toy hanging on the other side of the wall. 

Phil leaned back in his black working chair. “Because I have many sons and at least one of them acts like each of you.” 

“And what makes you think I need your help?” Clay held his chin high, although deep down he knew Phil was bringing something to the surface. 

“Your eyes,” Phil deadpanned. George hissed too, at the comment, making Clay assume that George had heard the same words before, from Phil. “The way you two look at me tells me, excuse for my language, that you’re trying to bring shit onto yourself because you want me to think you’re someone else.” 

Clay raised from his seat, not even bothering to swing his bag on properly. 

“That’s it. I don’t care about whatever bullshit you’re trying to tell me. Don’t pretend you know me.” That was it. He left Mr. Watson’s office with a bang of the door. No one came after him, just to his liking, and he just wanted to go back to Orlando again. 

He slid into the closest bathroom stall he could find and slammed his fist onto the mosaic paved wall. 

—

“If you don’t want to be sent home, I would suggest you come out of that bathroom stall right now and go to class.” George’s voice came from the other side of the door. That sound didn’t have any taste in it. It was just, simply, a voice, like Siri, but worse. At least Siri pretended to care. 

“I don’t need your reminder.” Clay scowled as he threw open the door, right hand still bloody from the fists he threw at nothing in particular. His bag was on his left shoulder now, since his right couldn’t possibly carry any. He must’ve hurt a joint or two, not that he really cared. 

George was half leaning on the faucet counter. 

“It turns out you’re not that together as I thought you were.” George just replied. 

“You don’t sound like how you looked when I first met you either, so I guess we’re even.” Clay was busy rinsing the blood away from his hands. He winced when George suddenly moved over and squeezed his shoulders. “What the fuck?” 

“If you don’t talk about how I can’t fight the school’s strongest bullies, I’m not going to talk about how I can squeeze you on the shoulders hard enough that you can’t remember who you’re pretending as.” George whispered into his ear. 

And suddenly Clay was pissed. He threw George off his shoulder and pinned the smaller boy to the counter from his neck with just his left arm. Both their bags on the floor. 

“Say that again and someone else will be saving your sorry ass from me this time,” Dream threatened before letting go, careful not to actually hurt the boy in front of him. He never intended to make someone bleed, even though he looked strong. “And don’t pretend you’re trying to be someone else too.”

“I never said you’re wrong. I was just relishing the fact that you’re no different from me.” George said, climbing up from the counter into a sitting position. 

“Shut. Up.” Clay’s words echoed through the bathroom stalls, leaving George there. No one won from that fight, and no one lost either.


	4. conflicting and not conflicting in the same way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take off your cover,” George whispered. “There’s no one here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you haven’t noticed both of them are very conflicting, and they would only be truthful to themselves and each other when they’re in the night, tired and sleepy. In school, they unconsciously wear their covers but Clay is even more hesitant to take is cover off. 
> 
> This is hard to write.

Lunch time. He headed towards the dreaded food court. 

He used the path he did the day before. Even though there were still people, at least they weren’t louder than a pack of seagulls. He was walking a little slower because he wasn’t holding his bag properly — since his hand still wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t like he’d spare time to go to the nurse — they would ask him why he hurt himself, and his parents would ask him meticulously, and it would be hard for him to make an excuse. 

Hadn’t he making excuses for himself?

Clay shook that thought away from his head. Someone put that idea there — perhaps Phil, or George. He snarled at the thought of those names. 

They pretend they know me. He thought. 

And there it was. At a familiar corner he saw the alleyway again, and in there he heard the same set of voices he heard the day before. 

Should he leave right there? 

He shouldn’t. 

It was true that he didn’t give a single fuck about what other people are doing. It was not his business, just as others shouldn’t stick their fingers in his business. But George was at least right on something, and he hadn’t seen someone like George, someone like himself, for so long. 

Fuck it. 

He lay down his bag, almost silently, and walked up to the entrance of the alleyway. He had purposefully made a sound so that people in there will be startled, be known aware of Clay’s presence. He didn’t know why his actions were so contracting with one another, but then again, he was getting lost about what he was trying to do. He just did it.

It was the same scene. Replayed. The only difference is that now he knew the boy’s name. George. 

George was on the ground, blood on his lips, under his eyes. A bruise on his shoulder, just high enough on his neck to show. One of his arms were limp, but not enough to be broken: it must’ve been recently twisted. There were still two men standing in the back, savoring the sight of George being hit. 

Clay hissed, drawing everyone’s attention onto him. He had hid his bad hand in the pockets of his jeans — he didn’t want to fight in it. 

“Say, if I were you I’d be spending more time eating during lunch time than to try to kill a boy a third of your size with two men behind your back.” Clay declared as he stepped closer, hunching his back a little so he would look the man straight in the eyes. The man let go of George, who whimpered a little. Clay didn’t expect that sound coming from the boy’s mouth, but he made a mental note not to care. It wasn’t his business. He knew better than to talk to George about it, just as no one should talk to him about his own weak times. 

“And? My lunch time is my freedom, it’d be disrespectful of you to interrupt my fun session with this cute little boy here twice in a row.” The man taunted back. Clay didn’t like the tone of his voice, so he kicked the man in the gut with his knee, sending the man to the nearest wall, right next to George. 

“Why don’t you have some fun with me then? Little boy.” Clay had pulled out his left hand and pinned the man to the wall. He didn’t look as strong as he appeared — maybe it was just fat. He stressed the last bit of the sentence, clearly showing the irony behind those words. He wouldn’t like to be called “cute little boy” and he expected George to not like it either. He glanced briefly at George, who was staring at Clay in an expression he barely had seen before. 

The man snorted. “Let go of me,” 

“What if the answer’s ‘no,’” Clay retorted, moving a leg to step on the man’s thighs. He stepped a little too hard and the man gasped for air. “Aww little boy, don’t shout.” He tried to be as daunting as possible, although he had never done this before. The two men in the back were obviously also scared, as they scurried to leave the scene. Clay shot them both a warning glance before they disappeared out of their vision. 

“I see you’ve got some coward friends.” Clay kneeled down in front of the man, who was violently shaking at that point. Clay wanted to laugh out loud. It wasn’t even that hard. 

Only the weak bully the weaker. That sentence holds true after all. 

Clay let go. It was never his intention to hurt the man, although the man had hurt others. He never considered himself as the bullying kind, and the Clay Kingsman never had any reason to do that to anyone. He pulled away, kicking the man one more time before the man also scurried away, leaving George and Clay in the same alleyway, right next to each other, facing different ways. 

Clay shrugged when George attempted to open his mouth to speak. George pursed his lips, stayed silent, and sat there for a short while. 

“You know what,” Clay spoke up. “Maybe we’ren’t that different.” Echoing what George had said exactly that morning. 

“I’m glad you realized.” George murmured. 

“And if you decide it’s finally time to drop that bratty accent of yours, maybe we can talk just a little better.” Clay snapped. He was still facing the concrete wall, hands pulsing from whatever he just done. The wall was cracking, just like something in him that he still couldn’t quite tell. 

George snorted. “I will not, and you will not either. We both know better.” That was it, and Clay turned away and left. 

—

It turns out that his second language was arbitrarily chosen to be French. It wasn’t like he didn’t know French, it was just that he was annoyed. Clay would rather do Spanish or German instead. He never really believed in French ideologies as a kid, and grew to dislike how everything sounded so soft and lovely — even the swear words were beautifully pronounced, like silk on milk chocolate — he would rather choose something rough, like himself. 

And worse off, people were actually trying to talk to him. 

He recognized a voice. A blonde-brunette boy from the food court, the day before. Nick, if he remembered correctly. The boy was obnoxiously loud, which hurt Clay’s head more than a little more. 

“You’re Clay, right? Nice to meet you, again.” Nick held out his hand as he found a seat right next to Clay. Clay growled. 

“And why does that bother you?” He snapped back, a little quieter than he’d like. Nick didn’t look offended, at all. As if he was used to people snapping at him, and suddenly Clay felt bad. 

“If you don’t want me here I can always go,” Nick said, waving his hands in front of his body. 

“I don’t care, if you want to sit next to me just take a seat.” Clay growled. He didn’t feel like pushing the boy away. It was a while before anyone tried to interact with him like that, anyways. 

Clay sighed as the class pushed forwards. He tried his best to not think about his throbbing hand. 

—

“Clay,” Clarent raised a brow at him when he got home. Somehow, Clarent always seemed to be there before he did, although it was against her best wishes if he was to ask. “What did you do today?” 

“Nothing.” Clay said, throwing his bag onto the couch. Clarent just stared at him besides the kitchen counter, watching his movement little by little. 

“You’re lying. I don’t even need to read your expression to know you’re lying. You came home at six in the morning today, came back with a bruised hand, and somehow every single one of my classmates are talking about you online. What did you do?” 

Clarent knew him too well. He growled. 

“Do you know where the ice packs are?” Clay tried to divert the topic. Clarent wasn’t biting. 

“In the fridge, you asshole, and don’t try to avoid my fucking question.” 

Her words were like knives on a chopping board, cutting straight into Clay’s mind. 

“Fought a teacher, fought a kid, and fought three bullies for bullying that kid.” Was all Clay managed to spit out of his mind when he put his hand against a cold pack. 

“Clay Kingsman will not do that.” Clarent declared, and he hated it that she was completely right. 

“I won’t do it again.” Clay said, heading back to his room. Clarent darted in front of the door and held Clay by the shirt. He stopped and stared Clarent straight into her eyes. 

“I don’t mean it like that,” She said. 

“I don’t think you would mean otherwise.” 

She thought for a while. 

“You know what, forget about it. I’ll leave you alone.” She declared before wandering off. 

He would’ve lashed out at her if she wasn’t his sister, but unfortunately she was. He knew he couldn’t win a heated conversation with his sister even if he tried, especially when he knew he was lying to himself. 

What was this new place doing to him? 

—

Night fell again, 10 p.m, and he knew he couldn’t sleep today; it was no different than the day before. He wasn’t going to suddenly stop thinking and just find himself in bed. He needed somewhere to go. 

But as he climbed out of his chair and reached for his vape, now fully charged and with a new flavor inserted, he realized that he, if he wanted to go to the same place he had fallen asleep at yesterday night, he will definitely see the brown haired boy who always looked at him in the expression that provoked him, and made him want to say more. 

It wasn’t like Clay really didn’t want to see him. He wanted to know more about what the boy was doing, who the boy was, and to a certain point who Clay himself was. He had grown, in the past few hours, to admit that he was changing, though a little quicker than he wished, but he wanted to know why. 

It was burning in his throat. 

So he went, this time not outside of the door. His parents were home and awake enough to notice him sneaking out. Luckily he still had a window. It was high, but his legs were no means short; the windowsill creaked slightly when he put half of his weight on it but it was just a short moment when he lunged him through the open window and landed with a soft thump on the grass floor. 

Clay wondered if he should come outside, but a part of him told him that there was no way of going back, though he actually could — no way could he not just flip through the window and go back onto bed — but he wanted to know something, real bad, and this was somehow the only way. Or so his brain thought. 

Anyway, it didn’t really matter. 

He used to think that nothing really mattered, until he came here, decided to show up in front of a bully, twice, to save a boy hiding under a fucking cover of thorns and broken glass. The boy made him re-think his stand in things, and he hated it that it changed so fast. 

Clay Kingsman had spent his entire life making himself strong, yet a weak ass boy turned up, snarled at Clay with a bratty attitude, and broke things within him. Something in Clay shattered, with a crack, and he didn’t know how to put it back. 

“I thought you’d show up here again.” George’s voice came from in front. Clay raised his chin a little just enough to see a short figure sitting on a set of bleachers in the wrong way. He didn’t notice how long he had be wandering and thinking for, but it must’ve been a while. 

“I don’t know what made you think that.” Clay sighed, breathing into his vape and sitting down on the far side of the bleachers, just like how they sat in the computer science classroom. 

George shuffled in the seat before he stood up and sat over besides Clay. Clay glared at him slightly but didn’t say anything. 

“Take off your cover,” George whispered. “There’s no one here.” 

“There is. You’re here and I’m here,” Clay whispered back, head drooping down, riled with tiredness and raw emotion he didn’t know how to describe. 

“How does lying to yourself help?” 

Clay vaped again, smoke flying into the sky. He tried his best to not look at the brunette next to him, who was staring at him with the same expression he always couldn’t fathom. 

Burning on his cheeks. He could feel them resting on him. 

“I don’t know.” He said. That was the first truthful sentence Clay has said in a while, and he didn’t know what to think about it. 

George looked down to the ground too. “When I first got here, I was about 11 years old. Not in highschool, but another small middle school around here. They made fun of me, and I couldn’t fight back. And they kept on coming back to me whenever I would fall down under the monkey bars and cry; my mother would always tell me to act strong, and they would think that they couldn’t break me. So I acted strong. I got good at it, and gradually people around me that cared thought I didn’t need help, and to the people who hated me I was the monster, the boy they could always beat, and to the people who loved me I would always stay strong.” George hiccuped. 

“I don’t know why you’re telling me that.” Clay’s voice was softer than usual, and he didn’t bother changing it. He took a deep breath again and huffed, leaning back slightly, relaxing. 

“I want to know why you looked straight into me. I want to know why you acted the same. I want to know more about you, Clay. I might be a monster to them by I am still human… I, I’m sorry I pushed on you earlier, I just don’t think you’d like it more if I asked you nicely… But I… I just want to kno-”

Clay cut him off. “You’re rambling,” he vaped. “And yeah, we’re not that different, George. Orlando… can be quite consuming sometimes. The people, the sounds, the voices.” Clay was also rambling, barely missing what he actually wanted to tell others. He couldn’t afford to spill — it was the pride that was still holding everything up, after his cover began to crumble under the brunette’s words. 

“Thank you.” George whispered. Clay finally broke his glance with the grass under the bleachers and spared George a brief moment of eye contact. 

“You have nothing to thank me for,” He sighed. “I think I got what I wanted tonight. Good night, George.” Clay dusted his pants, although nothing was on them, and headed away back home. 

“Will we talk again soon?” George said into the distance. 

“Maybe, George. Maybe.” He answered before walking off, vape in hands and hands in pockets. Mind clear with thoughts, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wished to go to sleep. 

—

Last night he was on the bleachers. 

Last night he talked to someone about himself. 

Last night he admitted something. 

Last night he came back through the window, and his sister noticed but chose to say nothing about it. 

“I hope you found some answers.” Clarent said. 

“Answers to what?” Clay threw back, even though he clearly knew what Clarent was saying, he just didn’t want to talk to anyone else like he did again. Clay still thought it was a mistake for him to talk to George like that and blamed it on tiredness and the nicotine. After all, he was always good at blaming things. 

“Clay, it’s time for you to rethink some things.” Was all Clarent said before she left for school that morning. Clay followed suit.


	5. Only the weak bully the weaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had fought his entire life to be stronger, and he didn’t want to go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer is near dead  
> Help  
> Warning//violence!

Mr. Watson caught Clay wandering in the hallways during break. 

“I’m sorry for talking to you like that yesterday,” Mr. Watson first proposed before Clay could speak. 

“I was about to say the same.” Clay admitted, scratching the back of his head and desperately searching the hallways for something to lay his eyes on. Mr. Watson seemed to catch his wandering eyes and walked closer. 

“You know,” He started. “George stayed there in my office for a little longer. I know him, and he knows me, well enough so we can barely get along, but I didn’t know there was someone else like him. George’s past and present isn’t really for me to talk about, but I really do think talking to him more can help you both out.” 

Needless to say, they were already doing that. 

“Thank you, Mr. Watson.” Clay murmured. 

“Call me Phil, and I really sorry I couldn’t help George more.” Phil said as he walked away, barely patting Clay on the back as he went, making Clay’s entire body shudder. 

He sighed as he walked away too. 

—

Clay was more lost than he had ever been, and he didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. 

The last time he was lost in his own mind was when he was first building himself up from puzzle pieces. That was back in Orlando, on his large, comfortable bed, whispering to his smiley face plushy about what he wanted to be. He had told the plushy that he wanted everyone to look up to him, and he would have the power through more than just physical strength. He wanted to be smart, be witty, be unapproachable — everything he was today. His parents didn’t even seem to notice anything was wrong. 

Pfft. Very characteristic of them. Neither did his parents think anything was wrong to this day, even, and even if they did, they didn’t seem to do anything about it. Clay liked to think that his parents were either blind or cowardly, that they cannot even face their own child’s struggles. 

This time though, he was sitting in a math classroom, staring at a blackboard filled with things he was sure he had learnt already way back three years ago, next to a loud boy with little sense of personal space he had just met yesterday during lunch. 

Somehow, Nick decided that sticking to a 6’3” guy in every single class they had in common was a good idea. Clay didn’t really mind, unless Nick talked to him, in case he would snap back every time, and Nick didn’t really know how to talk back. 

Clay was questioning his younger self. 

Was boxing up really worth it? Yes it definitely was. He wouldn’t be who he is today if he hadn’t. It wasn’t really a choice. It was the only way out, and it is safe to say that he was successful: he was smart, he could earn himself a significant amount of money at age 18, he didn’t need a lot of social interaction anyways — they’d just bring him sorrows he could have ignored. 

What is changing now, then? Well, the simple answer must be he moved. He met George, well, he didn’t exactly meet George, but he got to know about the boy who was almost just like himself. 

What would he do now? 

That was where he was stuck on; there was no where he could get an answer quick, and he didn’t plan on to. He hadn’t been holding onto his shell for so long just to lose it as fast as he could once he left. The presence of another guy with another shell shouldn’t change that. This was confusing Clay. 

He needed to talk to George again. 

“Hey, class is over,” Nick tapped Clay’s desk, yanking him away from his train of thought. “You want to go to lunch together?” 

“What makes you think that I want to go get lunch with you?” Clay immediately snapped back to character, almost unintentionally. He started packing his bag. 

“You could’ve just said ‘no.’” Nick complained, tone void of strong emotions, and somehow Clay was glad that Nick wasn’t hurt because of his words. 

Why did he suddenly feel sorry? 

Clay shook his head and gave himself a roll of his eyes and he stood up, back in his left hand, and walked straight out of the classroom. Nick also exited, but skit straight past Clay and to the food court. Clay sighed as he headed to the alleyway again. 

To his surprise, the bullies weren’t there. Neither was George, which made him sigh even more. He had half expected to meet George there and to talk about whatever he has been thinking about, especially about their conversation in the middle of the night. But on the other hand, that was very selfish of himself. He turned around to walk out of the alley. 

“You’re looking for the boy?” He looked back and saw the familiar trio, as well as a few other unfamiliar faces, possibly from other grades. 

“And what does that have to do with you?” Clay immediately tensed up, knowing what’d happen soon. He didn’t like it. 

The man in front huffed. His nose was still bruised from yesterday’s encounter. 

“You took our little boy toy, it’s only fair that we return the favor,” The man smirked, earning some cheers from the boys in the back. “And maybe then you’ll learn not to mess with us.” 

Clay, at the point, had already tossed his bag to the side. He wasn’t entirely worried about the upcoming fight, if there was going to be any it wouldn’t be big; he had already figured from the day before that they should be relatively easy. It was just his right hand — even though upon further inspection, he knew it wasn’t broken nor shattered, but it still ached dully, and he didn’t want to get it into more trouble. 

Though Clay cracked his fingers. He wasn’t going to back off; he never will. 

As if on cue, three of the smaller boys rushed onto Clay at almost the same time, the smug-smiling man took a step to the side to give them space. One of the boys had a stick in his hand and the other two came with nothing but their fists. 

Unexperienced little shits.

Clay had too much of this when he was back home, and although he wasn’t exactly too happy with the situation he got himself, he was probably a little too at home for the group of men’s likings. 

“Amateurs.” Clay murmured as he blocked the incoming stick with his forearm, barely feeling the pain. He didn’t know whether if it was from the adrenaline or not, but he didn’t have time to think. His right hand moved over quickly and grabbed the stick before the boy could pull off, ignoring a weak punch from another raven haired boy who looked barely old enough to attend Featherwood. 

He swung the stick with nothing but brute force, instantly knocking the raven haired boy out. The man on the back scowled and waved his hands, indicating the other two, who stood behind the man when the man was beating George the day before, to come forward. 

One of them shouted back at the man. “Bruce, you’re gonna have to buy us some pizza after this one.” 

So he’s Bruce.

Bruce didn’t say anything, instead, he bit on his nails as he watched Clay take down his goons, one by one. 

“If you’re going to fight me, you’re going to have to try better,” Clay deadpanned. If this was a movie or a TV show, his eyes would’ve turned blood red as he kicked someone’s abdomen with his knee and ducked a punch on the top at the same time. “And maybe grow a foot taller.” 

His right arm swung almost melodically left to right with a stick in his hand — he was careful not to punch with his right fist — and his left constantly blocking punches and slaps from random incomers before taking them down with his soles.

Only the weak bully the weaker. 

And it was about less than a minute later when Bruce and Clay were the only ones left standing. 

“Are you going to fight me too, dumbass? Or are you going to skedaddle away like yesterday and leave your dear friends here under my feet?” Clay taunted. He had picked up his childhood demeanor, tapping the stick on his shoulder like an actual katana, prompting Bruce. And as he expected, the man only looked angrier and angrier. 

“You’re gonna regret this, newbie.” Bruce said as he charged straight at Clay, Clay instantly went back into stance again. 

He was going to regret it. 

They hit each other, in different ways. The stick helped Clay land a powerful blow on Bruce’s temple, making the man groan in process. The man quickly backed off into the entrance of the alleyway before suddenly realized something, and frantically ran with something in his hand. 

That was when Clay felt something warm on his side, looking down, it was a dark red gash on the side of his lime green hoodie, fluid leaking out little by little, and it suddenly struck him that Bruce had been holding onto a blade. 

He hissed as he tried to touch it with his fingers, and as his adrenaline rush started to wear off, his knees buckled and kneeled onto the ground.

It was the one feeling he didn’t want back, ever. 

It wasn’t a surprise that he started breathing faster, mind flashing back to how he would stand in a corner of the street where there were no cameras, just trashcans and the putrid smell of human fecal matter, and face three boys the same age as he was, with weapons in their hands. He would lash out on them, but every time he’d lose the fight with a wound or two on his abdomen, back, arm, or shoulder. The boys were careful not to kill Clay, because if they did, they’d lose a little toy and maybe get fined, or scolded by their parents. After all, that was all Clay had worth back then. He remembered himself bandaging up the wounds alone, sitting besides the door of the pharmacy close to home. His parents were always somehow not at home, so he could afford to stay at a café with an understanding woman who would bring him two cookies that looked too ugly to be sold. 

He had fought his entire life to be stronger, and he didn’t want to go back. 

Clay’s mind screamed for him to stand up, open his eyes, take a deep breath, and carry on. He could bandage up at the corners, he could skip a class and go to a random bathroom and stay there, he could—

“Clay!” He heard someone shout, and that was when he passed out, forehead hitting the ground.


	6. thoughts go back to the mind and soul goes back to the corpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay Kingsman didn’t need that. 
> 
> Clay Kingsman was the cage, and Clay liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know, but I’ll be literally gone for the next week or so because of a school trip and I won’t have my shit so I probably won’t be uploading... or not? Who Knows....
> 
> This chapter is a bit confusing since it’s mostly filled with Clay’ thoughts, as always. Sorry if it’s hard to read :)
> 
> Also maybe follow me on twitter? @FraustHaruka and I’ll be talking shit :)

Clay ended up going home at about six in the evening. He knew he was late, but his parents probably wouldn’t notice anyways. Even if they were home, he could text his sister and open his window or something, although he probably couldn’t climb a window without his right hand being fully functional.

He didn’t wear anything except for his bandages George had wrapped him in a little more before he left. Clay didn’t regret refusing the shirt, even though the wind made it a little colder than he might’ve liked. Still. No regrets. 

Fortunately, he only saw his sister at home with half a pizza left on the dining table.  
“That’s why you’re home late.” Clarent mumbled. 

“I’m alright.” Clay sighed. 

“You clearly are doing a number on the school,” His sister commented. “I knew it was you when they told us they found five random kids lying in an alleyway with blood next to them. How’d you even live?” 

“I was lucky enough.” Clay said as he shoved a piece of pizza in his mouth. Hawaiian. He cringed at the pineapple.

“I want to tell you to get the wound cleaned up but I think someone has done that already. And can you please tell me how you managed to get into a fight. I don’t think they’re picking on you on pur-” Clarent started. Clay cut her off with a loud cough intended purely for such a thing. 

“Not picking on me. Another guy.” Clay murmured to himself. 

“Oh, so Davidson then.” Clay choked on the name. 

“How-”

“Everyone talks about him. You’d know if you paid more attention to what other people are saying.” 

“You know I hate it.” Clay pouted. 

“And so do I.” 

Clarent sighed as she went back to her room. 

“Don’t tell mom and dad.” Clay shouted. 

“You know I won’t.” 

—

Every single one of his limbs ached when he lay still on bed. Clay groaned to no one in particular, and even trying to flip over hurt. 

He never felt this hurt before though, and it wasn’t because he got cut. 

Fuck. 

Clay was confused. He was confused about everything that was happening. He desperately wanted to know why he wanted to fight for George, why George desperately searched for him when the boy saw Bruce running away with a knife in his hand, why George, the boy who was hidden up in a carpet of thorns, would cry in front of him because of a shirt, and why he opened his arms and George came straight at him. 

And fuck he wanted to know the answers. 

There was no way he could go to the field that day. He heard his parent come home chatting to each other and there was no way he could flip through that fucking window again. Neither did he have George’s number, not that he’ll ask for it. 

He pulled out his laptop and started typing; not really for coding, although that was what he wanted to do at first. Instead, he pulled out a word document and typed out his thoughts. He used to do this when he was younger, except that he used a notebook, when he desperately wanted to talk to something.

Yet nothing came out. 

His hands hovered over the keyboard and stayed there, and as the seconds moved on he got more and more displeased with himself as he already was, and the displeasure gradually grew into anger, and soon Clay found himself pinching his arm forcefully with both hands, trying to snap himself back in place. 

In the end, the only sentence he managed to type down was:

“What is wrong with you, Clay Kingsman?”

—

He didn’t go to school that morning. His parents won’t find out anytime soon; they’ve left home at about one hour before Clay and Clarent were even supposed to wake up. Clay had barely slept last night, and his wound would disagree with him whenever he tried to shuffle in bed, and he didn’t want people looking at him with sorry eyes. 

Clay remembered how people on the street will constantly whisper to each other about the bandages on his shin or the band-aids on his cheek when he was littler than now. He hated it, hated people talking about him like that, like he was to be pitied, like he needed help. 

He would usually shoot those people a glaring look, but sometimes he would hiss at them, or yell at them to “shut up,” but then those people would look at him like he was the plague and run away with disgust in their eyes. Gradually he learnt that times where he had cuts and gashes were the days he would rather spend his time somewhere closed off, just to himself. 

To the old Clay back at Orlando, it was always an abandoned treehouse his neighbor had left in the forest not far away from their house before his neighbor left Orlando for New York. The treehouse was always damp and wobbled every time a strong gush of wind came. A year ago it fell from the tree entirely, and Clay, who was already 6’3” by then, took an entire night to patch it up and tried his best to hang it back onto the magnolia again, although the treehouse could barely sustain his weight.  
His sister would know how he wouldn’t go to school. She had gotten into a habit of covering up for Clay every time he ran because she knew exactly how Clay was feeling even if Clay never bothered to actually tell Clarent everything. Today wasn’t an exception either, and he knew as he heard footsteps outside his door, soft but steady, suggesting they were his sister’s. 

“You’re not going.” That was a question. 

“No.” Clay responded. His voice cracked.  
It made him sound weak, and he hissed at himself silently for that. 

“Alright. See you this afternoon.” Clarent said before walking away. 

Moments later, Clarent left the house. It wasn’t exactly time for class yet but he knew Clarent was probably going to vape in a random street or alleyway before going. He never really approved of his sister vaping, but then again he was in no position to scold. Arguably, he was much worse. At least Clarent was having fun. He sighed. Now he had almost 10 hours to his own, and he felt like nothing but continuing to die on bed like a fucking coward. 

Clay Kingsman versus Coward. The Coward always wins. 

—

He wondered what would happen to the bullies. Would they come back? Or would they leave George or another poor kid alone. Probably the latter. Somehow Clay didn’t feel surprised. 

It wasn’t like someone the kid who had almost killed him more than once suddenly stopped when Clay first learnt how to fight back.

—

What else could he do other than spend his time on aimlessly scrolling through his laptop while lying in bed, coding random shit he found and almost instantly deleting them because he hated them. More like, he hated himself like that, and lashed out on whatever was at hand. 

“A baby, that’s what you are when you do that.” Clarent had shouted at him once when he punched a tree and broke his hand back in Orlando. Clay had cried that night, alone, of course, because he knew exactly what Clarent meant by that. But he kept on doing it, and gradually he even found pleasure in hurting himself, because he could finally feel something he did, even if it involved inflicting pain on his own body and mind. 

Speaking of which, interestingly enough, Clay never drank himself until he was dead ass drunk before. 

He barely touched any alcoholic drink, and even when he did, he used it to get himself by a certain situation. Once he had drunk half a cocktail glass of whatever drink that was because he wanted to excuse himself from a party full of girls and boys who were hooking up on each other at age 16 and couldn’t control himself from swatting away anyone who attempted to touch him to the slightest. 

He hated drinking because people say that they lose control over themselves when they’re drunk. To others, that might seem like a good thing, to, at once, unleash every beast and soul within their poor minds and do what they really wanted to do with little consequence, unless they’re driving. (AUTHOR’s NOTE: DO NOT DRINK AND DRIVE PLEASE!!!) Clay always scoffed at that. 

Clay Kingsman didn’t need that. 

Clay Kingsman was the cage, and Clay liked it. 

Clarent, on the other hand, did drink. Not a lot though, considering that she was only 15 — a little too young — but she did so because of a completely different reason. She never drank with others — only in her room, or with Clay watching, sometimes, so she could completely shut herself off from anything, or anyone, else except for Clay or the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend. Clay would sometimes tell Clarent’s significant others to fuck off without any reason, and Clarent would throw an empty can at Clay’s face. Clay snorted at the thought. 

It wasn’t because he was against people being bi or anything. He just thought Clarent might not want people to see her like that, just like how he would hate it if people looked at him like that. Though that thought was merely selfish of him. He didn’t know what Clarent thought. 

His thoughts drifted more and more as he fell into a deep trance, close to being asleep but not asleep yet. The only thing keeping him awake was his right hand gently pressing on his wound, shocking him rhythmically, reminding Clay that he was still alive. 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Father hurts more than the blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi, is this Clay?” The reply read.
> 
> “And you are George.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back.... I am dying of food poisoning but I’m back. 
> 
> Remember to wash your hands before you eat :) and make sure, if you make food for yourself, to cut your raw food and cooked food on separate boards if you have the choice! It saves lives :)
> 
> And I wrote this in a random village with no WiFi. It’s very disconnected and I apologize but have fun please :)

He dreamt of a prison.

Not the standard kind: a dungeon, more like. He wasn’t all by himself; instead, there were different people in every cell, it was just that he couldn’t differentiate them from one another — their faces were just a mere blur. Only Clay’s cell was propped open, and in the dream he remembered that someone opened it for him, though he only stared at the opening while sitting in a corner.

—

When he woke up, then sun had almost set. Looking to the side, Clay saw a glass of water with a packet of painkillers that weren’t there in the morning and figured Clarent must’ve went to the nearest pharmacy, which Clay still didn’t know where it is, and picked some up. He thanked his sister in his heart and struggled to sit up to get them.

Overall, Clay didn’t really dream. He never really took them seriously and believed that no one should. 

But he couldn’t help but think about that dungeon.

He tried to rub it off from his mind as he gulped down the water and the pill, the pill slightly sticking onto his esophagus, making him cringe lightly.

—

Soon, he was able to walk around in his little room. The painkillers were doing their job, and Clay was grateful. He would literally die if he spent another hour on his creaking bed: he had already figured out which parts of the bed would literally yell at him when he pressed on them and which would not.

Someone was knocking on the door.

“Is this Clay Kingsman’s house? I have his homework.”

He half-recognized that voice, and soon decided that it was probably Nick, the guy he rather liked but disliked at the same time.

“I have his homework.” Nick shouted into the door upon hearing footsteps inside. Clay stumbled to open the door, revealing the dude with almost chocolate brown short hair and a surprised expression.

“Thank you.” Clay snarled. The tone of his voice and what he meant were far off, but he could attribute it to his mildly aching limbs and body.

Nick backed off a little. “Chill bro, what happened?” Nick asked, concern filling his voice as he handed the stack of papers to Clay, which Clay slowly accepted. 

“Taught fuckers a lesson and apparently the fuckers think they did the same to me.” Clay summarized, proud of what he came up with on the spot. He flipped through the papers: most of them were math and CS, and one sheet of English, possibly the prompt of an upcoming lesson. 

“Then I’ll be going,” Nick waved as he turned around. “Hope you get better!”

Clay held out a hand, signalizing Nick to wait. 

“How the fuck did you get my address?” He asked. 

Nick shrugged. “Apparently the teachers knew, they have papers all of that shit.” Clay accepted that as an acceptable answer as he nodded a goodbye and closed the door in front of him, leaving himself with a stack of papers and his sister’s head peeking out of her bedroom door. 

“Who’s that?” Clarent asked. 

“A classmate,” Clay coughed. He worked his way onto the dinner table and pulled out a chair to sit on. 

“You mean,” Clarent raised a brow, “a friend.”

Clay shuddered at the word. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Clarent shrugged as she backed off into her own room. “Forget about it.”

—

Clay was flipping through the papers when he noticed how one particular sheet was a different texture than the others. Out of curiosity, he pulled it out. It was stuck in between the computer science papers, in a seemingly, and probably, random place. It was lined, as if it was torn out of a notebook and then cut so that the edges were smooth, although it made the paper a little less wide than the others. He looked at one side, which had nothing on it. And then he turned to the other side. 

It had a series of numbers printed with elegant handwriting in blue ink. It looked like a phone number, but he wasn’t entirely sure whose it was and why it was in the middle of his homework. 

Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps Mr. Watson happened to have a random piece of paper that had a business’s partner’s phone number scribbled — no, written — on it. Perhaps Mr. Watson forgot that that piece of paper existed and just randomly clipped it together. It would be weird if he decided to text the person behind the number, right?

But he knew Mr. Watson, and he’d probably never do that. 

And he knew exactly who that phone number belongs to, and it was something he had been somehow itching to do anyways. 

Thank goodness his phone was in his pocket.

Number after number, careful he didn’t input anything wrongly, and after that he began to text, and that was when he didn’t really know what to say. It wasn’t like he texted to people a lot anyways, especially with a pain in his stomach that made him not think straight. 

He lifted his fingers.

“Hello.” The tips of his nails scraped on the glass screen of his phone, that reminded him of him needing to cut his nails.

Clay received a reply almost instantly.

“Hi, is this Clay?” The reply read. 

“And you are George.” There seemed like there was no alternative answer to that question.

“I’m surprised you decided to text to a number you have no idea who’s it from.” Clay could see George shrugging with a grin on the other side. That brat.

Clay growled to his screen. “You know it’s obvious. You like blue, and it’s written in blue. It’s tidy, so it’s not a randomly scribbled note. 

Do I need to say more?”

George responded with a thumbs-up emoji. Clay rolled his eyes.

“Thank you for your number,” Clay wrote, and then quickly added.

“Thank you for texting me too :)” Was the reply. 

—

They didn’t talk more than that. Clay didn’t feel like talking too much anyways, and it seemed that George didn’t really mind either. He thanked George for that; not a single bit of his conscious mind thought it was a good idea to suddenly pour everything into a bit of text message, yet another bit, just a slight bit of him, told him that he might as well could. 

Clay shook his head. It was already getting late, and he couldn’t exactly track how long he had been there doing homework he knew no one would check on the dinner table, but long enough that the sun was setting, and his father came through the door. 

“Good evening, son.” His father said, glaring straight into Clay’s eyes as Clay turned his head to face the man he eerily resembled and hated.

“Good evening, father. You’re home early today.” Clay responded in a similar manner. They weren’t on good terms, to say the least, but they’ve made a silent agreement since many years ago to not talk about it, even if it meant that the father and son shall never speak for more than ten minutes to prevent them from lashing out on one another. 

Mr. Kingsman laid down his work purse on the side of the door and made his way to the kitchen to presumably get a glass of water. Clay happily acknowledged the fact that his father stayed silent through his journey for a drink as he turned back to whatever he was working on before he started thinking about something else. 

His father worked at Featherwood, and so does his mother. He never knew what they really did, though, he only knew that they weren’t teachers, just staff. Not that he really cared, though. They didn’t talk to neither Clay nor Clarent about what they did at work ever since they were young, and even though Clarent was curious at a young age, she learnt it was better if she didn’t even ask. Just assume everything. It’s fine, you’ll live. As long as you have enough intuition, which Clay gladly acknowledged himself to have plenty of. 

Clay’s father definitely didn’t know that he was hurt, or was ever hurt, and Clay wasn’t going to break the news any time soon, so as his father maneuvered himself around the house, Clay simply stayed still on his chair, rereading a paragraph about essay structure that he had read over three times and about to be his fourth. Soon, his father ended up in the master bedroom, and Clay’s shoulders were soon to relax, hurting a bruise on his collarbone in the process. He winced silently as he walked, or limped, back to his room. He couldn’t afford to stay in the living room when his father was home. 

As soon as he closed the door to what he now accepted as his private abode, his father came out of the master bedroom again, making Clay grateful for his swift movements, even though the 5 meter travel took more than 2 entire minutes.

“Fuck’s sake,” Clay murmured. The painkillers have worn off, and he couldn’t have more in the next 5 hours, according to whatever the bottle says on the little tag. Now, Clay could do nothing more than just stay there and wait. “Fuck.” The appearance of his father just made him worse, and the fact that he had eaten nothing in the past day except for an apple he found in his desk drawer just didn’t help much either. He needed food, and quick. 

He texted his sister for help. At least she didn’t walk with a goddamn limp and winced with every step he took and took five minutes to open a fucking fridge and heat whatever food they had in the fridge. 

“Hey, can you get mo food? Father’s home.” Nothing more, it was self explanatory enough. Clarent responded with a a “k” before he heard footsteps outside, in the living room. 

He was grateful, and even more grateful when he heard what happened next. 

Clay heard his sister’s and his father’s voice outside, and squinted. His father shouldn’t really be there — he should be working, on his own desk, in his own room, and definitely not talking to his sister. 

“You didn’t even bother to say hello?” Clay’s father asked. He somehow was prone to belief that Clarent wasn’t like his brother, that she should be loving, caring, and pretty like any other pretty girl. Their father was way more harsh with Clarent, and Clay never had the courage to speak up because he would hate it if his father decided to snarl at him. 

“Welcome back, father.” Clarent calmly said, accompanied by noises which resembled the sound of her rummaging through the snack cabinets for a potential quick snack. 

Their father shuffled. “And you’re getting more food because?” 

“I am hungry, father.” She lied. Of course she’d lie. If their father knew how Clay needed her to fetch him food, their father would’e barged into the door and held Clay by the shoulder to question him about shit, and by then he wouldn’t be able to lie. 

“You shouldn’t eat this much.” 

He could hear his sister stiffing up. “And you shouldn’t care.” 

“You should,” Clay could hear his father growl and he shuddered even though the voices echoed through his wooden doors. “Because if you keep on eating like this, you will get like a pig.” 

Clay wanted to pounce on his father. Right now. If he didn’t have a big gash on his hips. 

“Whatever you say, father.” Clarent murmured before turning back into her room. 

Asshole, asshole, asshole. 

And it pains him to think that his mother wasn’t much better. 

Fucking pricks.


End file.
